


Drone Season 2018 Fill: Mobsters With Knives

by mouthword



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homestuck Stabdads, Cloaca, FTM Spades Slick, Humanstuck, I didn't intend for the focus of both chapters to be knives but uhh, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Knives, M/M, knives?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 07:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthword/pseuds/mouthword
Summary: Crowbar has a hard time keeping one of his men in line.Meanwhile, in another universe, Desmond Droog has a hard time keeping his husband in line.





	1. Die/Crowbar: I Hope You Blink Before I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlassesBlu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesBlu/gifts).



> I had a fun time trying to hit as many points with the Slick/Droog request as possible! Enjoy! :D

The mansion always carried an uneasy undertone to it when you patrolled the hallways alone like this. A lesser leprechaun might say it evoked a sense of fear, or foreboding, like the silence would soon be followed by the discovery of a green torso on the rug and a rowdy Dersite with a knife lingering nearby, violently assaulting a wall mounted clock.

 

You? You feel uneasy when it's this quiet. Not out of an irrational fear in the imaginary boogey-Jack around the corner, but out of fear that someone, somewhere, was doing something they shouldn't be doing. It’s essentially your job to carry this concern with you at all times, perhaps even your special talent. You have a knack for being able to determine when people were fucking around in ways they seriously shouldn't be fucking around. That’s probably why you hold the position of authority you hold.

 

_ Your name is  _ **CROWBAR** _ , and someone, somewhere, is definitely fucking around. _

 

You make your way down the eastmost hallway, passing by door after door, keeping a watchful gaze in search of anything out of the ordinary. You give a rap of your crowbar against each door as you pass by, a quick curt one, before opening it to see what the occupant of each room was up to. Most of your fellow crew members were either out doing something else or partaking in some low impact solitary leisure activities, if not doing something generally ridiculous like always that you’d rather not question unless you absolutely had to. You try not to bug them too much when they're not doing much in their rooms, though. One, that would really just make you come off as more of a jerk than you want to come off as in a less than urgent situation. Two, if you had time powers that generally plagued you on a minute by minute basis, you probably wouldn't want someone barging into your quarters and questioning you as to what fucking around you were or were not doing when you're trying to rest. You really don't want to be that kind of jackass. You're firm, but you're no monster. As an upstanding leprechaun, it's your job to set yourself aside from the carapacians that would sooner see your head on a spike than sit down over a bowl of candy with you and discuss your differences like a decent fucking individual. You really don't want to see yourself on the other end of that stick any time soon.

 

"Ay." You give a small rap of your crowbar on the next door in the line. It lead to one of the more generic of the generic clock rooms, so you rarely saw too much ruckus in there unless someone is using it to do something secretive, like hide a body or tap toes outside of the sanctity of their own damn room, but there was no harm in checking. Someone was fucking around. You couldn’t leave any clock unturned. After a small beat, waiting for a response, you proceed to open up the door, only to catch gaze of Die, carving a series of intricate symbols into the floor of the room with a knife, with several clocks placed around what seemed to be an intricate star pattern and a single voodoo doll in the middle.

 

It’s always him, isn't it? When it isn’t the giant bumbling dunderfucks, or Clover tapping toes with someone in a common room, it’s Die doing something...absolutely bizarre that you have no way of rationalizing. Sometimes it's something asinine, like attempting to keep chickens in his room, sometimes it's throwing tantrums where he literally runs off to a timeline where you're dead so he could be done talking to you. Dumb shit like that. He slowly gazes up at you as you step in, wide eyes looking you up and down, his knife slowly continuing to trace a line in the floor as he maintains full eye contact with you. You just sigh, giving yourself an exasperated slap to the face with your non-crowbar bearing hand. “Die. What are you doing?” You gesture to his various floor etchings.

 

He looks down to the floor, then back up at you, not lifting the knife at all. “...I...isn’t it obvious?” He simply tilts his head, pulling a confused expression, like it was clear exactly what he was doing.

 

“No it ain’t fuckin’…. _would you stop that already_?” You sneer, stomping on over to him in an effort to stop him. He remains completely and totally unfazed...or rather, looking exactly as fazed as he usually does without much change, up until you grab for the wrist that has the knife in it. He sneers back at you, making an attempt to jerk his hand back, but you counter by giving him a good upward yank to his wrist, pulling him to his feet. It only works so far in your favor to have him at full height, considering he is a good half a head taller than you, not counting the added height he gained with hat of course, but you feel like this would go a lot more smoothly if the two of you were standing and not having a dumb little roll around on the floor like tactless idiots. You’re grown-ass ageless constructs, dammit. Clearly you could settle this pesky little matter of who was and wasn't allowed to carve shit on the floor without stooping _too_ low.

 

Die doesn't seem to give, and he glowers over you with the added height he carried, giving another yank back of his wrist. Usually he doesn’t mess with you, any more than anybody else did at the very least, but something is off. Maybe it’s pride in not wanting you to blatantly knock the knife from his hand, or maybe it’s really that important for him to fuck up the floors right now. Either way, he doesn’t budge on handing over his knife, instead twisting his wrist in an effort to make the process of trying to disarm him more difficult for you. You quickly tighten your grip and straighten his arm out, holding the end of your crowbar up to his face in an attempt to further intimidate him without outright bashing his head in. Even though it would probably be easier just to knock him out right now and find someone with the appropriate combination of ridiculous time powers to go into the past to knock him out **_before_** he started pulling this shit, you don’t want to end up with your head on the chopping block for outright knocking out one of your crewmates just because he pissed you off. Or worse, demoted to a standard, everyday lackey without any power over anybody, fumbling around like an idiot waiting on a sense of purpose and drooling over an oven somewhere because your lack of structure nullifies your need for any functioning, coherent thoughts. You don't want to live to see the look on Doc's face when he catches you knocking one of these idiots out just because they were annoying you too much. It’s just a threat, for now. There's probably a palpable air to it, that you aren't actually about to bust his face in, as you can tell by Die blatantly laying a hand on your crowbar and shoving it out of his face, both pairs of hands now locked in an attempt to disarm the other. It feels like a pretty ridiculous stalemate to you, as you glare him down in an attempt to really knock it into him that you're the one with a position of authority here and he should be listening to you when you tell him not to fuck up clock room number twelve like this, but he doesn’t seem to get the idea. You’re simply locked in this struggle, attempting to wring his wrist into dropping the knife while trying to free your own weapon from his disgusting, chicken fondling hand. You say nothing. You shouldn't have to say anything. He should know by now that he's got to give when you of all people tell him to back down. He ain't one of the idiots that doesn't know right from left, after all. You expect him to be smarter than this.

 

A few more seconds of struggling, each of you trying to shove the other's hand back while trying to free your own, eyes locked and teeth bared, until Die shifts the scenario. He doesn’t give. He doesn’t break. He shoves back with both hands, and he steps forward, nudging the tip of his shoe harsh against yours as he brings his other foot forward as well, forcing you to either step back or deal with having him that much closer into your personal space. You choose the former, shuffling back in a same manner to what he had done, one step, then the other, not retreating but simply returning to the amount of space that was previously between you to begin with, nobody breathing down anyone's neck, but still holding firm on your attempts to disarm him. He repeats himself. One step. Then another. Pushing you to do the same. It only took so many rounds of this for you to realize exactly what he was playing at. Was this guy really after horseshoes with you right now? You wonder if he actually planned this whole series of shenanigans exclusively to nab your attention before throwing you into a spite fueled tango you couldn’t refuse. You can never guess with this one. Half of these maroons have powers so erratic you can’t catch two whiffs of them before they fuck something up, but even without the power of spontaneously zapping through time on a whim, Die is just as unpredictable. 

 

As a serious man, you don't get yourself caught up in charms too often. If you do, it’s behind closed doors, like any respectable person would have it, unlike some people who sashay in public spaces like it’s nothing. You have bigger priorities than making yourself familiar with someone else’s idea of a dance number, so it goes without saying that it's been a while. Still, you’re better than this. You don’t pull this sort of game in public, even if it’s in one of the lesser used clock storage rooms. One step. Then another. You find yourself stepping in turn with him with very little nudging this time, giving his wrist a harsh yank until you were chest to chest with him. As you hoped, he finally drops the knife, keeping a harsh grip on your crowbar all the while. You’d forced him to give up the high ground, now he expects the same. You wouldn’t drop your juju so easily, you’re smarter than that. Whatever Die’s intentions are with this jig, you don’t trust him enough to disarm yourself. You take note of the fact that he kindly dropped his knife, but you ignore it, taking it as a win without lowering your guard. You could walk away right now. You could grab the knife and take off, finding someone to clean up Die’s future-past mess by going back in time and clubbing him in the face before he even so much as had the idea to pull this sort of thing. You could back down and pretend the few steps you’d taken together were nothing more than a bit of fumbling that meant nothing.

 

One step. Then another. You lead the dance forward, taking his now empty hand in yours with a tight squeeze in order to keep it from going anywhere, if only to prevent him from acquiring any more weapons. The sneer never leaves your face. You’re not sure if it’s out of annoyance or spite, but you want him to know exactly what’s going through your head, without any words. He isn’t backing down from your crowbar, offering an immediate yank to the weapon as soon as you take his other hand in yours. You yank it right back, and he retaliates by kicking you in the shin, digging his heel into the top of your shoe after. That got you. You let out a pained hiss, and the moment of weakness from the blow is enough for him to finally disarm you. He yanks the weapon from your hand and drops it to the ground, kicking it a ways back with his heel to make it that much less accessible to you. He takes your other hand, offering it the same tight squeeze you gave his and resting his foot back off yours, with no need to threaten you further. You were on even playing ground now, as even as it was going to get when he’d already won in making a mess of the mansion. It pisses you off, but not along the same lines as some other idiot fucking something up would piss you off. It leaves you feeling invested. He has your attention. You yank your hand back in favor of wrapping it around his waist, in a quick enough motion so that he won't question the possibility of you reaching for another weapon to one-up him with. One step. Then another. He rests his free arm around your shoulders in return, still holding your other hand hostage. He led you into a turn, seamlessly. One step. Then another. You never saw him leading. You never imagined this exact scenario at all, nor did you picture him doing a jig with anybody, but you never saw him as someone who would lead. It was one of those things you just assumed about someone, if they liked to lead or not. You could tell by how someone carried themself. He carries himself like someone who would break down over the slightest things. He didn’t present like someone who would lead, just someone who would avoid jigs altogether in favor of curling up under a table with his chickens. One step, then another.

 

It still seems kind of ridiculous in your eyes, kind of like a game. You aren’t the kind of person who’s open about your charms. You’re a professional. Professionals don’t jig in public places beyond the occasional sashay of public affection. One step, then another. This is completely unlike you. You know it is. You blank on your own morals for a minute as he steps you back, then back, then back again, until you’re up against the wall. Usually the walls were too riddled with clocks for a guy to so much as lean against it, but Die made a show out of moving all of the clocks on this wall to the center of the room. You question his motives again, as he tips your chin up, leading you into a slow kiss. It solidifies what’s been going on, perhaps even more than the jig that had just carried out, for him to finally kiss you. You see no need to back down. You can’t hear any of the harsh-footed idiots meandering down the hall, and if Clover is fluttering about on this side of the mansion, you have a sinking feeling he wouldn’t openly hold it against you. If he did, it’d be solely to try and sneak into your doubloons. Maybe try land himself a trove instead of the scattered mess of one night jigs he typically carried out. That’d be more annoying than embarrassing at this point. You grip at the front of his jacket, yanking him closer as you tip your head into the kiss, letting out a small growl under your breath. He responds with a small, amused chuff, snaking the hand not propping your chin up down to unbutton your slacks. While the jig had been eloquent, the follow through was undoubtedly rushed, his fingers finding themselves brushing up against your cloaca in a matter of seconds once you were pinned to the wall. You might find it insulting, if he hadn’t been riding your horseshoes this entire time. Maybe he caught on to your fear of being caught and made up for it by pressing forward as quickly as possible, but you have a sinking feeling that you’re expecting the best of him with that assumption. If he were on his best behavior, he would’ve spoken more than two words to you before leading you into this. He was clearly gaining something from this. Your humiliation? A sense of pride in taking down the big guy? Something ritualistic and convoluted? The hand propping up your chin slides down to grope at your neck, lightly squeezing around the sides as he continues to trace his fingers along the outline of your cloaca, using his grip on your neck to hold you harshly to the wall. You aren’t sure if he wants you to speak up about how disgustingly he was teasing you or keep quiet as to avoid being strangled. That really was the thing about Die, he’s unpredictable. More so than any of the moogs whose powers depend on their emotional state or how many times you smack them upside the head. It’s just part of his personality, something to expect. That is to say, that something to expect was that you aren't supposed to expect anything. You simply groan in response, exasperated, with very little pleasure to your tone, in an attempt to convey annoyance with his pace. Even if a few seconds ago you were questioning how forward he was being, the fear of being caught is seeping in. You couldn’t look half of these schmucks in the face if word got out that you ended up in this particular situation. It isn’t a pleasant thought, and you’re probably supposed to be thinking exclusively pleasant thoughts by now. He responds by tightening his grip on your neck, finally sinking a finger inside. You gasp, squirming up against the wall, but continue to suppress any sense of emotion evoked from this. You’d only ended up in a place where a jig went south once or twice, even in your infinite timelines, and it was almost always pressed forward by the other person. You have a status to uphold. A shameful dance with Clover really put a dent in that status for a while. You locked yourself in a trove with the job, anything else is just an annoyance to you nine times out of ten. Or rather, twelve times out of fifteen. 

 

You bite your tongue, figuratively and literally, as he rocks a second finger inside of you. His gaze fell low, not bothering to offer you the eye contact of glaring you down anymore as his pace increased. He seems just as focused on getting this over with as you are, internally. In reality, it really doesn’t take much. You’re off your game, and you don’t bother to play it by yourself. The hand to your neck, not choking but definitely asserting the fact that he had every capability of doing so if you were to act out, mixed with the fingers intruding your cloaca with a pace picked up so quickly you can hardly muster the mental energy to keep up, harshly pounding into you with enough care not to harm you but little enough not to care about how palpably out of practice you are, really do little to slow the process. It doesn’t take long to finish you off, which is to say, time is utterly meaningless and you could’ve been playing this game for literal years without noticing how long it was, but you digress and pretty much just assume it was only a few minutes due to your own shattered sense of experience. You twist your fist into his jacket, back crawling up against the wall as you let out a long sigh, squinting your eyes shut as your cloaca tightened and twitched around his fingers. You stay like that for a few more seconds, before he retracts, wiping his hand off on the thigh of your pants. He still says nothing, simply walking away from you to pick the knife back up off the floor. 

 

You follow him with your eyes as he returned to what he was doing previously, digging his knife against the floorboards. He stares back at you, maintaining full eye contact as he continues to carve out the line he was working on.

 

“ _...What are you going to do about it?_ ” He responds to your silence.

 

You open your mouth to speak, then cut yourself off, staring for a few more seconds. You button your pants once more, and say nothing, stepping over to pick up your crowbar and walking away from the situation instead. You make your way over to the door, which you note is open just a crack, before immediately bumping into the tiny gremlin himself, tapping to himself in the corner.

 

“Hoo hoo, quite a show there, Crowbar! Only happens once in a pink moon, just my luck to---”

 

You bonk him on the head with your crowbar, silently thanking every powerful being in the universe you were actually capable of doing so for once, and simply walk away from him, swinging your crowbar over your shoulder as you do.

 

You have places to be.

 

**Your name is CROWBAR, and someone, somewhere, is _definitely_ fucking around.**

 


	2. Slick/Droog: I Hope I Never Get Sober

Desmond silently watched out the window as the bus pulled up, cup of coffee in hand, a tired haze crossing his features. He watched as Karkat and Aradia rushed to get on the bus, Karkat barely evading tripping over his untied shoes and Aradia snaking around him to gain the lead over him, hopping on the bus before him. He gave an amused chuff, taking a sip of his drink as he watched the bus pull away, then peering back over his shoulder to the living room. Saul, as expected, was half asleep in his usual arm chair, legs hanging over the arm of it with his arm dangling down to the floor. He had his eyes closed, squinted shut, as he tried to block out the light. Desmond simply rolled his eyes at his partner’s sorry state, strolling on over to him. “And _good morning_ to you as well.” He sat on the arm of the chair closest to Saul’s head, taking another sip of his drink as he gave Saul a quick nudge to his shoulder. Saul reacted with a groan, bringing his arm up to cross over his eyes as he muttered some unintelligible expletives. “You really should get in the habit of waking up before noon. Getting the kids dressed and ready for school can’t always be my responsibility, you know. It really does cut into my crossword time.” Desmond rolled his eyes, giving Saul a small pat on the head.

 

“ _Mrrrmfh…_ ” Saul responded, as gracefully as possible, curling his legs up against himself. “I’m...20 days sober...I got a splitting fuckin’ headache...lemme sleep…” He groaned, shifting his arm to squint a peek up at him. “How are you so fuckin’ pleased with yourself this early? You sneakin’ booze? I thought we were in this shit together.” He muttered, slowly pulling himself to sit up properly and scratch at the patchy facial hair along his jawline. He wore nothing but a plain black tee shirt and grey boxer briefs, his build short, but he carried a bit of weight, his form relatively rectangular. 

 

“Not a drop, actually. I’ve found that it’s pretty easy to get over with enough caffeine. You should try it.” Desmond added, condescendingly, handing over his half empty coffee cup. Desmond was actually dressed, wearing a white button up and black slacks. He wasn’t headed out anywhere, that he knew of, but he liked to dress nicely regardless. It made him feel a lot more productive, and a lot more dignified than walking around in his pajamas, much like Saul did. He typically got himself dressed right before he got the kids dressed, and rarely wore anything less than semi-formal. You never know when you’re going to have to spontaneously head off to the grocery store and bump into an ex you want to think that you’re doing so much better than them. It was always the right time to throw on something nice. 

  
Saul sat up a bit more, taking a long sip of his coffee, before pulling away and sticking his tongue out. “Bleh. This tastes like I just walked into a fuckin’ black and white art flick. It’s coffee, Des, it ain’t a milkshake.” He muttered, taking another sip regardless. “I don’t see how this is gonna get rid of my shakes, unless you seriously spiked it. I’m goin’ fuckin’ insane here…” He handed the empty mug back to Desmond after he’d finished it off, slouching once more.

 

“It’s a decent bandaid. You’ll live.” Desmond gave a small smirk, setting the mug on the coffee table in front of them. “Fixing your schedule might help as well. Being awake during the day and getting some sunlight instead of spending all night perusing eBay for knives and the other bowels of the internet for pornography whilst your laptop screen slowly radiates your eyes is highly beneficial. Maybe some fresh air. Playing catch with your son. _Normal_ human things.” He shrugged, crossing his arms with a judgmental expression on his face. Granted, most expressions on his face could come off as judgmental.  


 

“Sounds dull as shit.” Saul scoffed, crossing his arms as well. “Been too long since I had a real reason to hop outta bed. Kids appointments and dumbshit school functions ain’t nearly as exciting as jumping ship in the middle of the night to go beat down classy lawn statues in the rich part of town. Why can’t we pull shit like that anymore?”

 

“That typically involves alcohol, which negates the purpose of trying to find fun activities that don’t.” Desmond replied, with a quirk of his brow. “I think that teeters over the edge of blatant non-legality into a place where I don’t want to be caught dwelling at this stage in my life. How about we spend the afternoon engaging in internet piracy? Then we’ll head to the grocery store to eat produce without paying, maybe even text on the drive over.” He added, casually draping an arm around Saul, using the other hand to idly gesture as he spoke. “Would that count as an exciting day for you?”

 

Saul feigned a sneer at his suggestion, but amusement shone through in his expression regardless, paired with a small snort of a snicker. “That what housewives do to get their kicks? Might as well start goin’ to bingo night and minglin’ with our neighbors. Fuck, I’m bored.” Saul groaned, scooting towards the edge of the chair and leaning forward to grab a knife he had blatantly left out on the table for their school age children to find, returning to a small carving of a wolf he had been working on in the table, alongside other random etchings.

 

“With your life as a whole, or in the moment? Not that I have readily available solutions for either that you’d actually like to hear, but it would be nice to know if this is an existential dread thing or an impulsive weapon purchase thing…” Desmond trailed off, eyes directed to the knife in Saul’s hand. “...Has that knife been there all night?”

 

“Both, probably. School season’s a pain in the ass, I can’t go out and do anything fun ‘cuz you always throw the blame on me whenever I drink or the cops are on my ass over some bullshit, but I don’t have the kid to blame not being able to do any of that on.” Saul scoffed, digging the knife into the table at an angle as he worked on giving the illusion of three dimensional fur to the wolf.

 

“Yes, it really is awful when you don’t have your kid next to you to blame the awful, boring life you lead on. Has that knife really been sitting there this entire time?” Desmond restated his question, as Saul didn’t seem to have been paying attention the first time around, leaning forward and gesturing with his finger to Saul’s current piece of work. 

 

“ _Heeeeeeere we go…_ ” Saul simply replied, stopping what he was doing in order to hold up the needle point pocket knife in his hand, demonstrating it’s perceived safety by giving a quick flick of his scarred fingers to return it to being closed, gesturing it to his other hand with added sarcastic flair. “See? Look. Pocket knife. It don’t look like a toy, it don’t got any sharp edges, perfect for leaving out on the table so you don’t gotta go to your fuckin’ safe every time you wanna stab shit because your killjoy husband don’t think you should have knives in the house without any fuckin’ training wheels on ‘em first. We done here?” He spoke in a patronizing tone, looking away from Desmond once more and flicking the knife back open, assuming that would be the end of the conversation. Rather, he hoped that would be the end of the conversation. It almost always was not the end of the conversation.

 

Desmond gave a small sneer, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a hardly audible groan. “Saul, you tire me, you know that?” He muttered in response. “It doesn’t matter how enticing the knife may or may not be, it doesn’t have to be a candy cane shiv for someone to end up getting curious and hurting themself with it. Weapons go in the safe when you’re not playing with them, you know this.” Desmond spoke in a patronizing tone as well, but his was more genuinely demeaning than sarcastic, speaking to Saul as if he were nothing more than a child who just learned the F word.

 

Saul scoffed in response, side-eyeing a glare in his direction whilst continuing to carve curled strands of wood from the table. “What, you really gonna treat me like a broad who don’t know knives from pixie sticks every time I leave one out and, surprise surprise, neither of our kids stab eachother?” He rose his voice a tiny bit more, stabbing the knife into the table hard enough that it would stand on its own before rising to his feet, crossing his arms and looking to Desmond, waiting on his response. With Desmond sitting, it was a little easier to glare at him, considering that with him standing Saul barely met his shoulders. As such, noting the small bit of power Saul gained by standing, Desmond stood as well.

 

“Insinuating I treat you like a housewife any time I insinuate that you made a mistake is sort of demeaning, don’t you think? Not to mention downright insulting. Darling, I think you’re an idiot no matter what you present as.” Desmond spoke in an apathetic tone, crossing his arms as well, and accentuating the height difference between them by leaning down so that they were eye to eye. Saul responded to this with a look of disgust, immediately giving him a harsh shove to the chest to knock him back enough to get him out of his face.

 

“You really lookin’ to fight this early in the morning? That’s a new fuckin’ record. Ain’t you supposed to be the one worried about gettin’ the cops called on us again?” Saul huffed out his nose, grabbing for the knife stabbed into the table and holding it up to Desmond in a manner he found threatening. It was mildly threatening, considering you could poke yourself in the eye from just looking at a knife like that wrong, but less so in knowing that there was a 70% chance Saul wouldn’t actually stab him. Desmond simply held his hands up, feigning surrender, every part of the action oozing with sarcasm from the look on his face to the wrist flick he gave when he raised his hands.

 

“What can I say, don’t talk to me when I haven’t had half of my coffee.” Desmond replied, giving a roll of his neck as he rolled his eyes. “I’d rather you didn't stab me right now, I feel like that would serve as an irony so severe I walk out of it with a clean pressed shirt.” He paused for a moment. “I say “clean” because you aren’t going to stab me. Do we really have to play this game every time?” Desmond glanced to the knife, then back to Saul, carrying a fairly cold, judgemental gaze. Granted, his face generally just looked like that regardless.

 

Saul scoffed, gritting his teeth as he threw the knife over Desmond’s shoulder, causing it to jut into a well worn indent in the door behind him, alongside many other marks from knives casually being tossed against it. Desmond hardly flinched, simply leaning to the opposite side as to further secure the fact that he didn’t end up with a knife in his neck. It was far too early to have a knife in his neck. “You’re a fuckin’ ass, you know that?” Saul grimaced, stepping close enough to grab him by the collar and deal a sharp yank to it, very nearly butting heads with him. “You pickin’ a fight just to have an excuse to fuck me? You really that pathetic?” Was his blunt response, a sharp bark, in order to hide the fact that it was a request and not simply a snark riddled jab like all of his prior statements had been. Really, this was foreplay for them. It always had been, aside from the fact that in their earlier years it had involved a lot more alcohol, and a lot less trying to skirt around their kids schedules or avoiding the neighbors calling the cops on them thinking someone was actually in danger. It was perfectly normal for them to have swift shifts in conversation like this, pleasant conversations ending with weapons being drawn and clothes being torn. It was completely and totally dysfunctional, but there was a sense of consistency to it, if anything. This was just how things worked. It was rarely clear to Saul if Desmond tried to critique him and pick his own petty squabbles with him for the sheer sake of pushing him to this point or simply out of totally platonic annoyance, but Saul made it perfectly clear how he wanted to cope with them.

 

Desmond gave a small sigh, slightly amused by Saul’s line of reasoning when it came to shifting a conversation about keeping knives in the house into something sexual, but not surprised. He’d grown accustomed to this song and dance years ago. Saul was bored, and Saul was impulsive. If it wasn’t alcohol, vandalism, or kleptomania, it was sex. “You’re projecting.” He replied, lazily snaking an arm around his waist, before giving a small yank so that their pelvises were flush against eachother. Instead of continuing to berate him, he simply kissed him, if only to shut him up and end the riffing part of the fight there. Saul responded by gripping both hands at the collar of his shirt instead of just the one, clenching his fists into it as he leaned into the kiss with full force, clumsily gnashing teeth with him in a kiss that was more aggression than romance. He pressed his hips back into Desmond’s, slowly rutting against him for some form of gratification. Desmond idly gripped at the back of Saul’s shirt in response, not nearly as forcefully as Saul’s grasp at his, but simply responding to the aggression by feigning his own. He tried to guide the kiss into something more manageable, rather than awkwardly mashing mouths, as he gained very little gratification from the sharklike manner of courting they had been engaging in, but Saul only gave so much. Desmond eventually pulled away, still holding Saul close as he gave another sigh, wiping his mouth off with the hand not grasping at the back of Saul’s shirt. Saul gave a sigh himself, looking Desmond up and down as he seemingly tried to make sense of where to move this to next, before giving a sharp yank in either direction at his shirt collar, successfully popping the first fastened button, as intended. Desmond immediately caught a glance, letting Saul go and giving him a small shove as he grasped at his shirt, pulling it up so he could get a better look at the frayed string where the button once was. A minor inconvenience, but a major insult. Desmond glared back up at him, taking a silent moment to let his spite sink in. Saul gave a pointed grin in response, certainly proud of himself in what he’d done. Desmond squinted, and leaned close to give Saul a sharp yank forward by his hair. He wasn’t too invested in the shirt, what he was invested in was punishing Saul for being such a cheeky bastard. Saul winced at the yank, but did little else. He expected this, and even if he was an impulsive bastard, he knew he was in the exact zone he wanted to be in where Desmond hated his guts but wasn’t about to both metaphorically and literally make him sleep on the couch for it. Desmond glared at him for another few seconds, forcing eye contact as he did so in order to make it clear that he was silently enraged, before letting go, slowly and silently walking towards the bedroom without a second glance. He was a silent sort of angry. The worst kind. Saul could never get a good read on the guy, which was another big part of why they fought so often. Saul pushed his limits because he rarely knew where the limits were to begin with. Saul had to take a moment to determine if this was an invitation or a defeat, but considering that as Desmond made his way into the bedroom he neglected to shut the door, Saul’s money was riding on the fact that he was expected to follow him. He followed behind a few seconds after Desmond had left for the bedroom, taking a bit of caution, if only because the safe was in there and Desmond very well could have gone in to grab a weapon. Of course, that most likely wouldn’t have been the case regardless, but if Saul was in his position, he’d probably grab a knife. 

 

The bedroom was in a constant state of mess, despite Desmond’s attempts at keeping it presentable and well managed. Saul had a vast collection of weaponry that ended up scattered in various places around the room, making the large safe used as an nightstand on Saul’s side of the bed look like a joke, as he only kept firearms in it while his knives and other less impactful weapons found themselves around the room. The bed itself was actually an old futon, made up with nice sheets in an attempt to hide it, but the sound it made when it was sat on was unmistakable. The whole room reeked of smoke, the scent imbedded in the carpeting so heavily that it was destined to stay long after the carpeting was removed. The room felt like home to Saul, but to Desmond, it was a lifestyle compromise he found himself disgusted with on a daily basis. He was comfortable with their living conditions, their trailer, their down to earth lifestyle, at least to the point where he didn’t go out of his way to hate it. He simply passively complained about it and silently loathed it. It felt like home, unfortunately.

 

Desmond had laid back on the bed, ankles crossed and arms supporting his head as he peered up at Saul once he’d walked in. He quirked a brow at him, with an expression that very clearly read “let’s get this over already”, annoyance seeping through his expression as always. Saul paid his reluctance no mind, hastily making his way over to the bed next to him, shooting him a grin as he positioned himself to straddle his hips. “Wipe that look off your mug, ain’t even given me a chance to disappoint you yet.” Saul gave an amused scoff, giving a few slow rolls of his hips against Desmond, gaining little gratification from it but putting on a show nonetheless. 

 

“My mistake. I’m still waking up. Would you rather smother me with a pillow or something? Pretend I’m not here? Your choice, really. If it were up to me I’d be on my second cup of coffee with three crossword answers to go.” Desmond droned on in response, very quickly earning an offended scoff from Saul, as anticipated. He wasn’t really in this for the gratification of it either, to him, this was just the logical evolution of this argument. The illogical logical evolution of this argument, but this was just how things had worked for the past five or so years. This is what their relationship boiled down to at the end of the day, when the kids weren’t around.

 

Of all of the things that changed when they took on the sober homebody couple lifestyle, sex was just as high on that list as any of the illegal activities they had to leave behind. When they first started sleeping together, it was sheer power struggle. The two fought. It was what they did. Saul was the leader, Desmond was the man behind the curtain pulling the strings. Saul did everything he could to keep that curtain shut, and when that didn’t amount to attempts to humiliate or otherwise knock Desmond down a few notches, it was fucking him in an attempt to gain dominance over him. In reality, Desmond’s sense of superiority over him was always there regardless, but throwing Saul a win every once in a while was what kept the crew together, in his mind. If it came down to a battle of who was and wasn’t the official leader, it would end up knocking the crew down from four to three with Saul either focing Desmond out or Saul storming out on his own. Desmond knew Saul was competent enough to make it on his own, but too reckless for his own good. Like it or not, Saul needed a safety net. Someone to keep him out of jail and alive without teetering on the brink of organ failure due to his disgusting lifestyle of alcohol for breakfast and other people’s leftovers for dinner. Was it because he loved him? Desmond questioned that on a daily basis, both when Saul made threats on his life over the smallest of things and when he remembered that it was Saul’s decision to keep Karkat knowing full well it would disrupt their lifestyle to a more extreme degree than the three days a week Aradia politely dug holes in the dirt behind the trailer to bury dead frogs in. Either way, he locked himself into this for a reason. Things changed when it stopped being about power and started being about boredom. It was the same old dance, but the threats were empty, and the insults had all been said before. 

 

“Jesus fuck, would you shut your trap?” Saul snapped back, silently calculating for about three seconds whether Desmond silently judging him was better or worse than him providing a running commentary. As much as he hated that look on his face at any given time, it was better than him talking. Desmond had a nasty habit of proving him wrong, which was a major turn off. Saul did, however, seriously consider the pillow idea for a bit longer than he should have. He was careless about hitching Desmond’s pants down, scooting back just enough to grab for his belt then taking as few steps as possible to crumple them down around his thighs. If Saul were smarter, he’d have planned it out that way exclusively to stretch and wrinkle them, but this was an act of sheer impatience. “Got places to be or somethin’? What’s with the geddup?” Saul wrinkled his nose, carelessly and unceremoniously yanking Desmond’s underwear down as well, just enough to expose his cock. Saul’s impatience continued to show in his reaction to Desmond only being half hard, looking almost offended at the sight before shamelessly spitting in his hand, then reaching down to grasp at the base of his cock, only slowing his pace so much for the task.

 

Desmond didn’t respond to the question for a good few seconds, simply idly watching Saul’s actions. “...I’m sorry, was that a genuine question or just another jab? You quite literally just told me to shut up, I’m not sure what your goal is here. Do you actually want to know if I’m going someplace or…?” He pulled one hand from behind his head to give a circular “etcetera” motion of his hand.

 

“Ay, cram it!” Saul answered his question, raising his voice a tad more than he had been and giving a small squeeze of his hand as a form of warning. “Ain’t anyone ever taught you to play nice when your dick’s in someone else’s hand? Ain’t that a fuckin’ parable in some cultures? Fuckin christ…” Saul muttered the tail end of that statement, his focus primarily on the movements of his hand and the slow progress he was making. It was Desmond’s invitation, there was no mistaking that, but the fact that they had been teetering on a genuine, serious argument instead of one put on for show had changed the tone quite a bit. There was a distinctive difference between fighting for the sake of fighting and fighting over something worth fighting over.

 

Desmond decided not to actually answer the second time, if only to cut the banter down there, if only for the time being. There was a tonal shift that differed from their usual sort of play-fighting that really did a number on the mood, but that was hardly news by this point. After a few more seconds, Desmond shifted to sit up, simply tipping Saul’s chin up to kiss him instead. Saul pulled back from the kiss with a sneer, feigning disgust in an effort to keep fighting, but Desmond repeated the action, a simplistic effort to get Saul to drop his metaphorical gun and to make the experience moderately enjoyable. They really were getting nowhere at the current pace they were going at, a lesser man would point to Saul’s poor ability to lead without stepping on toes and generally make it about him, but Desmond wasn’t about to say that out loud. He was certainly about to think it quite loudly, but he wasn’t about to say it. To an extent, he was able to get Saul to yield, pulling him into a kiss, then breaking it, then another, until Saul finally leaned closer and lazily wrapped his arms around his neck to reciprocate. It was something small, but Desmond was nothing if not someone who could get things done with as little effort as possible. He dropped his hand from Saul’s chin to press it to his side, tracing it down until it met the waistband of his underwear. He pulled back from the kiss as quickly as it started, pressing foreheads with Saul and giving a small yank to his waistband. “Move.” He lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were completely alone. It was a force of habit, considering their relationship started in small quarters with two other men a few doors away. 

 

Saul gave a small, annoyed scoff, perhaps out of impatience, perhaps due to the fact that he wasn’t about to be told to do something without feigning defiance towards it. Despite the front he put on, he complied, shifting from knee to knee as he reached down to remove his underwear without too much fuss, trying not to disrupt his position too much as he did so. He was careful about it, no longer acting as hastily as he had been before, but reluctantly so. Desmond had a bad habit of knocking some sense into him without doing much at all. What an ass. Saul hated that about him.

 

Appreciating the cooperation, and the fact that Saul was silent about it beyond his initial scoff, Desmond slowly snaked an arm around Saul’s waist, pulling him closer once more now that he’d done as he was told. The shift in mood had done a lot more to arouse him than Saul’s hasty fumbling about had, if only because things were on his terms. It was a sense of power play, despite the fact that it wouldn’t appear so to an outside observer. Getting Saul to do as he was told, even if it was something small, was often a reminder to him that he had power over him. Saul was a wild card, he offered something to Desmond that he could hardly get with anybody else, spontaneity that he had the power to contain. It probably wasn’t something your average Joe would get turned on by, but Desmond was a man of simple means in that respect. He pressed a small kiss to the side of Saul’s neck, only to earn a disgusted groan.

 

“Eugh...come on...gross…” Saul muttered in response, wrinkling his nose at the affection. “Anyone ever told you you’re a pansy? C’mon, smack me around a lil! I ain’t your gran’s fancy tea set!” He scoffed, quick to start unbuttoning Desmond’s shirt, eager to get it off but avoiding any more button mishaps while he still had Desmond underneath him and willing to fuck him. The fight had dropped, and while that raised his likelihood of actually getting off before lunch, in his eyes, the mood was totally lost. 

 

Demond gave an amused huff in response, giving a harmless nip to his shoulder. “It’s early.” He murmured back. “I’m not in the mood to fight. I’m in the mood to get you off so you shut up.” Desmond stated, bluntly, adding to his statement by tracing one hand down to squeeze Saul’s upper thigh. “I’d gladly strangle you for the same effect, but this seems more practical, don’t you think?” He added, the last part of the question slow and condescending. He was still holding a grudge, it was essentially in his nature to silently hold grudges for long periods of time for the sake of spiting the people closest to him whenever they wronged him. Occasionally he’d hold them quite loudly, actually. Being spiteful was in his nature, generally speaking. He just didn’t approach it in the overtly brutish manner that Saul did. 

 

Saul’s expression only soured, both to how condescending Desmond was continuing to be and how gentle his actions were. What a piece of work. Saul didn’t know if he was purposefully trying to ruin the mood, or if he just lost the hint somewhere along the way that Saul was in this to fight him. It felt intentional, if not selfish, turning what Saul intended to be a harsh romp into something far too tender and genuine for his tastes. Saul responded to all of this with a flat-palmed shove to his chest, pulling a face as he scooted off Desmond’s lap. “Nehhh...your fuckin’ face is makin’ me wanna duct tape my cunt shut for good.” Saul snarked, bluntly. “This ain’t happening.”

 

Desmond gave a few, slow blinks at him, taking a moment to recover from the whiplash, but only a small one. This was essentially to be expected from him at this point, Desmond was in no place to be shocked that Saul wasn’t going to be receptive the second it stopped being a fight. Saul was still recovering from his last relapse, Desmond couldn’t blame him for being so flippant. Well, he could, and he was going to, but that wasn’t the point. He gave a small sigh, not making an effort to make it audible, and slowly began rebuttoning his shirt, before standing and fixing his pants as well. “Mhm.” He muttered in response. Was he disappointed? In general, but not at this specifically. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, taking a few steps towards the door. “Do you want coffee? I can make you the cheap shit if you want.” He offered, peering over his shoulder at Saul, who was making himself comfortable on the bed, underwear hiked back up as he lay on his back, blankly staring at the ceiling.

 

“...Yeh. Coffee’s good.” Saul muttered in return, contemplating whether or not he planned on staying in bed for any longer or actually getting up for the day. Despite how he reacted to Desmond’s affection, somewhere, deep down...the guy was alright. That’s why Saul kept him around, right? He wouldn’t admit that he relied on Desmond any time soon...but somewhere, he knew that shit wouldn’t be the same without him, especially with the kid and all.

 

Maybe he’d put away the knife currently embedded in the front door later.

  
  



End file.
